


i found the cure to growing older

by entertheinferno



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Basically, Domestic, M/M, joe forgets he's important and pete kinda lurks around to remind him, like very very barely, slight angst, summary is very misleading they just kiss a lot sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:38:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entertheinferno/pseuds/entertheinferno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm old, and grumpy, and replaceable."  He hates that that's the truth, hates that he's not important, that he's just as disposable as Pete's bass, something you keep around, and love, but won't miss once it's gone, except then he's got a lap full of angry Pete, bracketing his hips with his legs, and he kind of has to stop with the self loathing.</p><p>"No one can ever replace you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i found the cure to growing older

**Author's Note:**

> because bast and i were talking about how joe trohman needs more love and then this happened.

 

It's not that Joe forgets his birthday, it's just that he doesn't actively make a point to remember it's there.

The rest of the band keep mentioning it offhand as the day creeps up and Joe just shrugs or pretends he can't hear them. He figures he'll get there when he gets there and deal with it then.

It's not like he wants to do much of anything anyway.

He's turning thirty, just another fact on a list of things that provide conclusive evidence for how old he's getting, he doesn't need to throw a party to remember that.

He can do it home, alone, with his guitar and his dog. He doesn't _need_ a bigass party, or even a smallish one for that matter. That's not really his scene anymore.

He really is getting old.

\- - -

Joe wakes up to Pete's cold feet pressing against his collarbone and he assumes that this is a near summation of what he should expect from his entire day.

"Get the fuck off me you asshole." He grumbles, shoving hard at whatever part of Pete is nearest in an attempt to get him off the bed. Half his face is muffled by a pillow and his complaint ends up sounding more like a rare breed of angry woodland creature but he does manage to get purchase on Pete's thigh so he can push him off.

It works and Pete goes tumbling onto the carpeted floor. He lands as gracefully as one in his situation can, which is not graceful at all, and then grins up at Joe from his spot, shirtless and stupidly awake for whatever time it is.

His alarm clock says 10:00 AM, but it's an asshole too, so Joe automatically assumes it's lying.  
  
He stares morosely down at Pete from atop his mound of pillows, squinting in the California sunlight that's streaming through his open windows, happy, and yellow and very much preventing Joe from going back to sleep.

He wants to be asleep right now as opposed to this, except he's not, he's awake and in possession of a Pete.  
  
Joe is not particularly happy about this.  
  
It also smells like something might be burning. He really, really hopes he's imagining it and decides the best idea right now is to ignore it until it becomes an immediate problem.  
  
"C'mon Duck Hunt, it's you're birthday. The big three-oh. Smile for me."  
  
Joe scowls. Pete kisses him and tries to pull him onto the floor.  
  
They wrestle for a minute, get tangled up in the sheets and each other, and Joe forgets for a second, just a second, that he's thirty.  
  
Forgets that he's old and mean and achey, too tired to do much more than scowl, because Pete's sliding his hands under Joe's tshirt, pressing cold fingertips into the divots between his ribs, grinning like they're both teenagers again, young and stupid and way too emotionally unstable to be driving around the midwest unsupervised, fucking in the back of the van while Pete and Andy are distracted or gone or otherwise too preoccupied to notice.  
  
It's weird and it makes Joe feel too big for his skin, and he rolls away from Pete, pushes sweaty blankets off of them and wrinkles his nose at the slightly smoky haze that's filtering through his bedroom door.  
  
"Dude."  
  
"Fuck." Pete's eyes go wide and he rolls off the bed and sprints out of the room, shouting something unintelligible about, like, breakfast food.  
  
Figures.  
  
Joe puts on a different shirt and decides to forgo pants because then maybe, _maybe_ he won't have to leave the house, and then meanders into the kitchen in his boxers, praying Pete didn't burn the coffee too.  
  
The coffee is actually perfect, but Pete did burn whatever he was cooking.  
  
Joe steals Pete's mug, adds an offensive amount of sugar to it, and eyes the block of charbroiled something that Pete dumps into the garbage can.  
  
"I'm making you french toast."  
  
"That doesn't even come close to resembling food, forget about french toast."  
  
"Fuck you," Pete says genially, doing whatever it is you do to prepare french toast. Joe usually just makes frozen waffles, he's not familiar with these weird breakfast rituals.  
  
"I'm making you breakfast on your birthday don't you love me?" Pete says, after enduring about a minute an a half of Joe's slightly wary stares and quiet, judgmental coffee drinking.  
  
"I'm awake and it's early and I don't need to be awake, therefore i have no room in my body for any love whatsoever. Plus your french toast smells like shit."  
  
"My French toast is awesome, ask anyone. That was just a test run. Now go put on some fucking pants, it's your birthday we're doing things!"  
  
\- - -  
  
Joe puts on pants.  
  
For the official record, he only puts on pants because he knows his phone is in his pocket and he figures since he's got them, and they seem clean, he ought to just put them on.  
  
He does not put them on because Pete told him to. He is an adult, he does not take orders from hyperactive bass players.  
  
He also texts Patrick about Pete's supposedly legendary french toast since he figures Patrick's the most likely to be able to provide backing to Pete's story or to debunk it.  
  
The response he gets is less than satisfactory.  
  
 _He kind of just cooks everything like he's working at a hibachi grill or w/e. you probably won't die of salmonella poisoning_.  
  
It's not exactly reassuring.  
  
Pete looks ridiculously self satisfied when Joe comes back and he serves the french toast with a flourish and almost spills everything in the process.  
  
Joe soaks his in syrup and decides not to mention it's a little burnt on the edges

When Pete kisses him after, pressed up against the front door, he tastes like syrup and he smells like coffee and Joe and he keeps pressing the palms of his hands against Joe's hips, cold and firm, holding him down, and Joe smiles a little, just around the edges, because it's always been like this.

Pete's still all sharp angles and bony elbows, hasn't changed much at all since they first started doing this, and Joe's glad about that. Glad that there are always going to be parts of Pete that won't slip away, things like his cold fingers or his cold feet or his cold nose, things like him kneeing Joe in the stomach when he wants to watch himself on TV and Joe won't change the channel, things like the soft press of his mouth, chapped lips and tiny, obnoxious grins. Promises and apologies written on Joe's skin in searing touches and healing bruises.

Pete's a grounding force but he's can't seem to find a way to keep his own feet on tethered to the ground. He's always running ahead of Joe, and it's hard to keep up, hard to tell if he's going to get forgotten along the way, but Pete always comes back, eventually. He's not the best with directions, he's got a penchant for driving in circles, but he always remembers which way is home, even if it takes a little prompting.

"Love you, you know." Pete mumbles against Joe's collarbone, fingers tucked in his pockets now, still holding him down, keeping him there.

"I know." Joe says, and he knows Pete gets the reference because he can feel his grin.

"Shut up you're such a nerd." Joe grins, kisses Pete again and huffs out a laugh when Pete slugs him in the stomach.

"I'm putting on a shirt then we're going out." Pete shouts, running back towards the bedroom and Joe rolls his eyes at Sokka as he puts on his shoes.

\- - -

The thing about birthdays is that they don't ever feel any different.  It's just one more day to cross off on the calendar.

Pete hangs off Joe a little more than usual, but that's not really anything new so he doesn't worry about it, let's Pete kiss him while they wait to cross the street, endures the lyrically romantic Pete-isms he keeps dropping like shitty pickup lines, ignores that they're all borrowed lyrics from top 40 love songs, old and new.

Pete buys him a ridiculous, enormous cupcake from some place that apparently just opened up and they eat it on the corner while they watch early morning traffic speed by.

Pete almost gets hit by a soccer mom while they're walking around, looking for a place to get lunch. She swears very loudly at them both for a few minutes before speeding away, laying on the horn while she tries to breach the lunch rush.

Pete makes a vaguely lewd comment about road rage or something just as dumb and they spend another five minutes laughing in the shadow of a crumbling brownstone, shoulders pressed together while they try to catch their breath.

This time when Joe kisses Pete he tastes like frosting and cigarette smoke and they don't stop until a homeless person catcalls at them from across the street. Pete keeps grinning about it, calling Joe his boyfriend, tangling and untangling their hands.

Joe deals with it until he gets sick of trying to function with a Pete attached to his side. It's a lot harder than it might seem, and he has to walk with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like a huge douchebag just to get Pete to stop.

Joe watches him bounce around, trying to walk on the curb, hopping up and down and getting in people's way and he pretends that the ache in his chest doesn't exist and that he's definitely not afraid that one day Pete will wake up and realize Joe is a crusty old man who's grumpy 3/4 of the time and will fly away to neverland and forget to come back for him.

Pete is 5 years older than him, he's not allowed to be the one who can't grow up. That's bullshit. Joe's gonna file a complaint.

\- - -

Patrick calls them when they're getting lunch.

They're hiding inside of a tiny, crowded sandwich shop that they can't actually buy lunch at because it doesn't serve anything vegetarian. The guy at the register keeps giving them dirty looks while Pete talks loudly into his phone, purposefully being more obnoxious than he usually is just to piss the guy off.

Joe engages the guy in a staring contest until he looks away, clearly irritated, and gives up on trying to get them out of the building. He goes back to making artery clogging subs for hipster kids who are too cool for the Subways across the street, and Joe waits for Pete to hang up. Focuses on not feeling out of place, scuffing the toe of his boot against the dirty, tiled floor until Pete finally gets off the phone.

Apparently Patrick and Andy are doing an acoustic thing for some radio show and the host asked if Pete and Joe would come along and do an interview. He's been a fan for awhile and he said he'd love to have them all in the studio.

Joe kind of doubts the guy even asked for him, but he'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

They go back to Joe's apartment to pick up his car and eat cold pizza out of Joe's fridge because Pete whines when he gets hungry.  
  
It's like three day old pizza and the peppers and onions on top look a little wilted, but Pete steals his crust and kisses his neck anyway. All in all, it's probably better than any lunch they would've gotten while they were out.  
  
Pete sings along to every song that comes on the radio when they're in the car, whether he knows the words or not, and Joe really, really hopes that nothing shitty happens during this interview.  
  
\- - -  
  
Apparently hoping isn't really enough.  
  
Turns out the guy is really a big fan, which is kind of cool.  
  
He's very... bouncy, and friendly.  
  
He shakes both their hands when they come in and wishes Joe a happy birthday, which is surprising, and grins like mad the whole time they're getting set up.  
  
And it's great, really, for the first six or seven minutes. He asks about the album, and the EP, talks to Pete about lyrics, and the fans, doesn't even blink when Pete makes a point to deflect questions to Joe, listens attentively while Joe talks about what it's like to finally get to write stuff for Fall Out Boy.  
  
He even asks a little bit about Joe's old projects, and With Knives, and Joe's sure Andy probably has something to do with this kid's knowledge but that doesn't stop him from talking about it.  
  
When Pete links their hands beneath the table, flashing Joe a small, satisfied smile, Joe only scowls a little bit, and he squeezes Pete's hand instead of punching him mid-sentence.  
  
Except then they do call in's.  
  
Call-in's are always the worst, because they get assholes, or hyperventilating fans, or just generally annoying people and it always, always ends in someone getting pissed, whether the caller knows it or not, and Joe's seriously contemplating pulling an Andy and just, like, breaking a window and getting the fuck out of there while he can.  
  
He regrets not following his gut feeling.  
  
The first two callers are fine, the one asks Pete something about something, it's one of the same questions they get whenever they do this and Pete just rolls his eyes a little and shoots of the answer in not quite monotone.  The second one asks Joe about his fender, and he gets to spend three minutes being very enthusiastic about guitars, and Pete is doing the thing he does, watching him like Joe is sunshine and Pete is a dying flower and it's disgusting and endearing and part of Joe wants to stop mid sentence to kiss him. The other part of him just kind of wants to punch him.  
  
He follows that instinct, and Pete spends the rest of the call doubled over, wheezing for breath while he laughs.  
  
For his part, the radio guy only jumps a little bit, and he doesn't even try and call security. Joe appreciates that.  
  
They're getting ready to wrap it up, Joe's ready to go home and crawl into bed again and maybe watch a bunch of shitty action movies with Pete, but radio guy insists they have time for one last call, and Joe kinda knows what's gonna happen before it does, but they pick up the call anyway.  
  
"Hi- Hello?"  
  
"Hi! You're on air talking to Fall Out Boy's Joe Trohman and Pete Wentz, what's your question?"  
  
It's a girl, she sounds young and excited and Joe almost sighs in relief, because he must've been wrong, it's just another fan who wants to know about Pete's tattoos, or his lyrics, or his girlfriend, or his dick, they're safe, it's fine.  
  
"Oh, wow! Wow this is, ok, yeah. So my question is for Pete but like, happy birthday Joe! I had know idea. You're like, wow, you're gettin' up there huh?"  
  
It's quiet, Joe's stomach drops three floors and dies when it hits the concrete in the basement.  
  
"I'm only thirty, actually."  
  
It should be something that they just laugh about, push it off like the dumb thing it is but no one's laughing. No one's doing anything actually and Joe can't tell if they're waiting for him to fucking blow up or something, but if they are they're going to be disappointed.  
  
"Oh. I thought you were like, wow, I thought you were a lot older, like. Wow. Well, anyway Pete-"  
  
Joe takes a deep breath, holds it in, and sits back in his seat for the rest of the interview, entirely silent.  
  
Pete keeps shooting him concerned looks and Joe just stares at a water stain on the wall next to the window, breathes in and out and keeps telling himself it doesn't mean anything. And it doesn't, he knows he's old it doesn't matter.  
  
He's too busy staring at the wall to notice Pete trying to take his hand.  
  
\- - -

  
They drive home in silence, the radio off, the only sounds are the road speeding by underneath them and their unmatched breathing.

Joe can't stop thinking, and it's shitty, the same thoughts revolving around his head, laughing at him, and he hates that he has to listen to them, hates that he cares.

He gets it. Not everyone is gonna bother to know that he's actually the youngest member of the band. Not everyone cares that he and Pete went to high school together, that, with no discredit to Patrick, because he puts up with a ton of Pete's shit, Joe has been Pete's best friend since before the band, since fucking Arma Angelus. They're not all gonna care that Joe writes for the band too, that he did shit while they were hiatus, shit that he's really proud of, that he would love for people to ask him about.

No one's gonna look at him and Pete and ever remember that Peter Pan's always needed his Lost Boys and Joe's been with him since the very beginning, and will be there till the very end, and no matter how many times Pete says Joe's it for him, whether its in public or whispered into his neck between the sheets at four in the morning, no-one, Joe included, is ever going to believe it.

But whatever. He's stopped expecting much from people when it comes to him.

Pete keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something and really it's just making Joe anxious, and it needs to stop. He's fine.  
  
"I'm fine, Pete."

"I, look-"

Joe sighs, glares at Pete and parks the car outside his apartment.

"Stop acting like I'm gonna break. I'm fine."  
  
"Joe-"  
  
"Just drop it, Pete. Seriously." And he knows his voice is a little harsher than it needs to be, and he knows that he should calm down and apologize, but he just...can't.

Joe leaves Pete in the car so he doesn't have to see the expression on his face.

\- - -

Joe doesn't mope.

He's thirty years old, he is not a sad teenage girl who just got into a fight with her best friend.

He is not hiding in his bedroom. The door is unlocked, Pete can come in if he wants, Joe isn't stopping him.

Joe doesn't mope.

Joe plays angry guitar riffs and writes songs in the tattered notebook he found under his sheets.

He thinks it might be Pete's but he doesn't really care.

He is not moping.

There's quiet activity outside of his door, the sound of Pete doing... whatever it is Pete's doing. The clang of dishes and the soft pad of his feet as he walks back and forth.

They've been home for a few hours, the sun long since descended behind the hills, casting the sky in blazing orange that's dying out now, fading into the quiet blue of dusk.

Pete comes in when it's finally getting too dark for Joe to actually be able to see what he's writing down.

Joe switches on the desk light when Pete elbows open the door, carrying a very large bowl of something. It smells vaguely like pasta. Joe thinks he should probably wait for a visual before he makes any assumptions.

Pete puts the bowl down on the desk, sits down cross legged on the carpet, and pulls Joe off his chair onto the floor with him.

Joe grumbles a little, situates himself with his back against the drawers, metal handle digging into his back, and waits for Pete to talk.

His hair's in his face, and he looks kind of dewy around the edges, soft and vulnerable and young and it almost makes it all worse. Joe reaches forward, pulls Pete into him, wraps his arms around his back and kisses the top of his head, breathes in deep and lets it out slowly, pretends he can't feel for ten seconds and then lets it go.  
  
"'M sorry Panda." He mumbles against Pete's hair and Pete shakes his head, pulls away, frame's Joe's face with long fingers and kisses him long and hard, tongue and teeth pressing words into his mouth that Joe doesn't know how to understand.  
  
"Shut up asshole." Pete says, and there is nothing soft about him now. He's steely and determined, mouth set, eyes hard, and this is the Pete Joe fell in love with, young and reckless, bruised and broken, the Pete that woke up every morning ready for war, ready to fight and fell into bed every night curled in on himself, or against Joe, too big for his own skin, bloodied and scraped from falling too far too often.

Joe loves now Pete too though, stable and steady and there, loves him more than he likes to think about because it feels too big to handle sometimes, he has to let the other guys take some of the load, because loving Pete isn't something you do half way.  He loves Pete, with his scars and his crooked fingers and cold feet and he loves the way Pete looks at him like he's the only thing that matters in the world, even though Joe knows there will always be bigger, better things than him.

"How come you don't get it?" Pete sighs, rests back on his knees, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  "How come they don't get it?

"Get what?"

"Get how important you are. You're a big deal Duck Hunt. They're all fucking blind if they can't see that."

Joe huffs out a laugh, derisive and quiet and Pete glares at him, hands sliding up to dig his fingers into Joe's hips.

"Stop. You are. You're so important."

"I'm not--I'm not seventeen anymore, Pete." He mutters, and it kind of hurts to grit the words out, but he gets through it, anyway. "I'm not this...this joyous, fucking...starry-eyed, beautiful...kid, anymore." Joe sighs, closes his eyes and leans his head against the handle of the desk drawer."I'm old, and grumpy, and replaceable."  He hates that that's the truth, hates that he's not important, that he's just as disposable as Pete's bass, something you keep around, and love, but won't miss once it's gone, except then he's got a lap full of angry Pete, bracketing his hips with his legs, and he kind of has to stop with the self loathing.  
  
"No one can ever replace you." Pete looks furious and determined and when Joe kisses him he feels like electricity, violent and hot and alive and Joe wraps large hands around Pete's slim waist and hopes that maybe if he keeps kissing Pete they won't have to talk about this.

"No, stop." Pete shoves at him, but he's grinning a little bit now. "I wanna fuck you, like for real, but I also need you to know how insanely important you are. Astronomical levels man."

"Yeah, you keep telling me. You were singing about it this morning." Joe grumbles.

"Yeah well clearly you're not getting the picture dumbass." Pete strokes his thumbs over Joe's jawline and Joe swallows, hard. "They don't get it because they don't know you, and that sucks for them because they don't ever get to have a Joe to go to when they feel like shit, and the don't get to listen to you play guitar at one in the morning because you stay up with me when I can't sleep, and they don't get to be the first person who hears your new music and their lives are severely lacking because of that. I don't give a fuck if they think you're forty or eighty or ugly or mean or anything because you're not. You are, and were, and will always be fucking beautiful, and ridiculously talented, and a fucking dick, and I love you."

Joe's laughing now, can't help it because Pete looks ridiculous and Joe loves him so disgustingly much.

"You're an idiot." He says, and he tries to kiss Pete and flinches when Pete smacks his head.

"No, you're an idiot because you're great and you don't see it." Joe rolls his eyes and shoves at Pete again and Pete bites his arm because he's a child and fights dirty.

"And you know what, all those people who don't think you're great? They're seriously missing out, and they lost your chance because you're mine and I'm not sharing you."

It's dumb, it's dumb because it's not even the nicest thing Pete's said to him, but it's honest, and Pete and Joe hates that he smiles at it, hates Pete a little bit.

"I love you."

Pete grins. "I love you too. Now, eat my pasta because I wanna have sex but I'm really hungry."

Turns out Pete can actually make good pasta.


End file.
